


Join the triumph of the skies

by HolRose



Series: Soft stories for the festive season in these trying times [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Christmas, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Warlock Dowling, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), M/M, Nativity Play, They both just love little Warlock, Warlock Dowling Loves Nanny Ashtoreth, Warlock Dowling Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Warlock's parents are not good at being parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: Warlock has a starring role in his Nursery School’s Nativity Play. In the absence of his parents yet again, It is up to one demon Nanny, and one angel Gardener to ensure that he has the time of his life and feels supported and loved. While they work out how to do this, they might just become a little closer to each other as well… ’tis the season, after all.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Series: Soft stories for the festive season in these trying times [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058882
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	Join the triumph of the skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Libbyfay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/gifts), [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/gifts).



> Thanks go to my wonderful beta [Elf_on_the_shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds) and for consultancy services to the very lovely and helpful [Wanderingbard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds)
> 
> Please do consider leaving a comment or kudos, as it means the world to me to hear from people.
> 
> The details of what happened at the actual Nativity in this ‘verse will be published in a separate story in a couple of days time, the second fic in this series.

**The Dowling Household, Kensington, November 2012**

“Aziraphale, we have a bit of a problem… Aziraphale… Oi, I need your help.”

The angel was deep in a book, he looked happy, nestling in a wing-backed chair situated by a blazing fire in the hearth of the little cottage he had been given to live in as the Dowling’s resident gardener. Off duty now, at nine o’clock on a cold mid-November evening, he had eschewed the overly hirsute face and challenging dental work that characterised Brother Francis, and was sitting in his usual garb, glass of wine in hand, seemingly extremely contented with his current lot.

Exasperated, she tried again, “Oi, angel, I’m trying to talk to you here, get your celestial nose out of that book and listen up.”

“Hmm?” said Aziraphale, eyes still firmly fixed on the text in front of him, “be with you in a minute, dear, just want to, ah, finish this chapter… there.” He placed a leather bookmark in his place and looked up, a mild expression on his face.

“Oh, Ms Ashtoreth, I didn’t see you there, how may I be of assistance?”

“There’s no need for that, angel. We need to talk, it’s Warlock.”

“What is amiss with the little fellow? He was quite chipper earlier when he was helping me rake up leaves. Well, I say helping, more jumping in the pile I was making and spreading them about the place, but he seemed in good spirits while he was doing it. What’s the matter?”

“Not so chipper now, angel.”

The demon came into the room and sat heavily on the chair opposite Aziraphale.

“Oh, _Satan_ , but these heels are killing me. Any chance of some of that?”

She indicated the bottle of red sitting on the small table by the angel’s chair and eased off her shoes, bending to rub the toes of the right foot.

“These shoes may look fabulous but they are a _bitch_ to be in all day running after a little kid.”

The angel made a small noise of commiseration and snapped his fingers, bringing a glass into being and filling it with a healthy serving of the Malbec to which he had treated himself.

“Here you go,” he said, passing it over, “now, tell me what the situation is and I’ll let you know whether I am in the position,” he raised his eyebrows, “or mood to help you.”

Lilith Ashtoreth lifted her top lip in a small sneer at this retort and accepted the glass with a sigh.

“They’ve done it again.”

“Who have?”

“His blessed parents, that’s who. Harriet came to me this morning to let me know that she and the egregious husband, ambassador man, whatever his name is.”

“Thaddeus, I believe…”

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t like him, don’t need to remember his name. Point is, they are going away to some UN bollocks in Germany in early December, leaving Warlock here under my care till they’re back, just before the sodding festive nonsense gets going.”

Nanny Ashtoreth had _views_ on Warlock’s parents. She was aware that they had been chosen specially to bring up their son, Warlock, also known as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, in such a way that would lead him to have no compunction whatever in being the agent of the ultimate destruction of the human race. As a demon she was supposed to be fine with that. The problem was that, in practice, watching the pair of them neglect their son was something that really did not sit well with her, not well at all.

The Dowlings relied very heavily on their nanny. Thaddeus was a career civil servant, with his eyes set firmly on his own personal advancement. Harriet, his second wife and a good twenty years younger than him, was equally ambitious, albeit in social rather than political terms. Both had been delighted to welcome the birth of their first child together. Tad, because he had always wanted a son,1 Harriet because she felt the advent of that son secured her future with her husband and diminished her chances of ending up in the same situation as her predecessor. Their initial delight had worn off quite quickly, however. Tad proved to be a persistently absent father, unwilling to alter his professional life of constant travel whenever his job demanded it to make time for his child. Harriet was similarly unprepared to change an existence of shopping, socialising and expensive lunches to care for an offspring who only seemed to become more demanding as he grew taller. Nanny Ashtoreth, austere, uncompromising and giving a distinct impression of brisk competence, reminiscent of a darker version of Mary Poppins, with the comforting Scots burr of Mrs Doubtfire, represented the answer to all of their prayers2.

No one could have been more surprised than Lilith Ashtoreth at her reaction to this latest assignment in what had undoubtedly been a colourful career since she had first slithered up to the surface of the Earth. When she had volunteered to take up the role of Nanny, it had seemed like expediency. The angel wasn’t that confident around children, and besides, it went down better with her infernal managers were she to be the one in constant contact with their Master’s child. In the run up to the posting, she had done her research, enhanced her talents to include the necessary skill-set and gritted her teeth to do the job to the best of her ability. What she really hadn’t expected was the range of emotions that had blossomed in her as she settled in to her new role.

As the demon Crowley, she was no stranger to inconvenient feelings. Falling arse over tit in love with her angel adversary was hardly the most sensible thing to have done whilst on active service on Earth. Yet that is exactly what she _had_ done, and embarrassingly quickly at that. It was a blessed nuisance, but she had learned to live with it and manage the upsurge of emotions rather well over the years. Despite the fact that the object of her affections could be a massive pain in the arse much of the time, he was kind, and broadly supportive. She had long accepted that without him, she would feel very much adrift and alone in the world. Were she to be honest with herself, she had increasingly come to orientate her life around his, as if he were the magnetic north to the compass of her heart.

In spite of this troubling fact, they had, over the years, come to a state of solid and durable friendship, and, after all this time, she was comfortable with that. So comfortable, in fact, that she hadn’t thought twice about suggesting this present partnership. Here they both were, overseeing the raising of the notorious Son of Satan, their infernal cuckoo in this particular nest, with a view to bringing a balance into his upbringing that might negate his innate nature and prevent him from ending the world, and that was sort of fine. The feelings relating to Warlock though, they were new, and the depth of them had the potential to make her very uncomfortable indeed in ways she didn’t like to examine too closely.

The problem was that she _really liked_ the kid, and felt hugely protective of him. She had always appreciated children, enjoyed their wonder at the world, constant questions and capacity for mischief, but she had never had an enduring relationship with a particular individual at close quarters. Now that she was in that situation, she had been surprised to find that it had not taken long before this small boy, an agent of domestic chaos with a seemingly endless capacity for extreme emotion, from wild rage to intense love, had wormed his way right into her heart. She didn’t quite know what to do with all the feelings that he invoked in her. It only afforded her slender comfort to note that the angel appeared to have gone the same way, if the fond looks that he gave the kid when they spent time together in the garden were anything to go by.

As a consequence of those feelings, she found herself resenting the treatment routinely meted out to the child by his neglectful parents and here she was, petitioning her adversary for assistance in making good the latest crime the miserable pair were about to commit against her charge.

She took a mouthful of the wine and sat back with a sigh, stretching out her long legs to put a pair of stockinged feet up on the coffee table, eliciting a tut from the angel, which she pointedly ignored. The wine was delicious, Aziraphale rarely stinted himself in that department and tonight was no exception.

“Why is that such an issue?”

Aziraphale gave one of his wiggles as he took another sip of wine and inclined his head to the demon opposite him.

“You’ve looked after the boy when they’ve been away before. You’re good with him and he seems happy enough with you, I can’t see the problem.”

“It’s this bloody thing at his school, hasn’t he told you about it?”

Aziraphale did remember something the child had said while he was jumping around in the leaves. He couldn’t always hear everything Warlock said if he was working, he spoke so fast, had a tendency to lisp a little and the noise of the rake3 had interfered with his hearing at the time.

He knew that Warlock had recently started going to an upscale private nursery school for three mornings a week, the aim of which was to socialise him with other children. Nanny took him there in the morning and collected him at lunchtime, and had been amusingly scathing on the subject of the other children’s mothers when they had chatted by the rose bushes4 only a couple of days ago.

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what was meant by the term ‘Yummy Mummy’, but had been led to understand that they were a bunch of _stuck up bitches_ that it was extremely easy and satisfying for the demon to tempt to a good range of the seven deadly sins by merely chatting with them at the nursery gates. Crowley really could not be trusted to go anywhere in this particular neighbourhood without stirring up all kinds of trouble. Like shooting fish in a barrel, he had described it, with a particularly smug grin.

“He may have said something, but he was very excited today, you know how he never seems to stay on one topic for long, and we ended up talking about beetles, because he found one in the leaves. What is the occasion?”

“He’s been given a part in the nativity play, and he is e _normously_ excited about it, angel. It’s on the sixteenth of December…”

“Ah yes, Beethoven’s birthday…”

Ashtoreth took off her sunglasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, an expression of extreme frustration creasing her features.

“If you could _concentrate_ , angel.”

“So sorry dear girl, do go on.”

“Yeah, so he is beyond chuffed about it and those two utter bastards won’t be here. I suggested to Harriet that she might consider staying for it but she looked at me like I’d just crapped in her handbag and squawked that it was important that she be seen with her husband at this UN bash. Selfish little…”

“Quite so, dear,” said Aziraphale, wishing to stem the invective about their employers. He had been witness to the demon’s outbursts on the subject on more than one occasion and largely agreed with Ashtoreth’s views, but he did prefer not to hear the kind of language she routinely used to express them.

“Poor mite. Is he very upset?”

“He’s inconsolable, angel. I got him to sleep eventually with a couple of songs and a story about Blue Kitty5 but he was crying for a long time. I’ve told him that we will be there. You don’t have a problem with that do you? Going there, that is, on the day, to see him? He likes you, it will make him happy if we’re both there.”

“Of course, I should be pleased to attend,’ replied the angel, his visage lit up with a beatific smile, “just think, all those little faces, and the carols, it will be delightful.”

“You’ve never actually been to a nativity, have you, angel?”

“Ah, no, but I have a fair idea of what goes on. Surely it’s not the kind of thing that you would be interested in, is it…?”

The angel looked surprised at this admission, imagining, wrongly, that this sort of occasion might be antithetical to Crowley’s sensibilities. The demon saw his expression and merely grinned, enigmatically. She was no stranger to that particular kind of pride, and the jealousy and other negative emotions that went with it, even if the parents at stage schools and junior fashion shows genuinely made her nauseous.

“Yeah, I’ve popped in on them, over the years. You’d be surprised at what a hotbed of sin they are, to be honest, what with pushy parents and the things the kids end up doing. They get nervous and you know what it’s like when that happens. A positive festival of bodily fluids…”

Aziraphale’s face contorted into a moue of extreme distaste.

“… or maybe you don’t,” said Ashtoreth, thinking of how fastidious the angel was concerning liquids anywhere near his clothes, “rather amusing, actually, kids just ooze, and sometimes they actually projectile vom - ”

“That’s quite enough detail, thank you,” said Aziraphale, primly, “am sure it will be splendid, on this occasion,” he continued, with a determined look in his eye.

“Ah, ah, angel, no meddling, we have to let him be who he is.”

Aziraphale looked a little affronted at this and then softened, gracing Ashtoreth with one of his genuine smiles.

“As you wish, of course.”

He glanced up at the clock on the wall and shifted a little uneasily in his chair. Ashtoreth knew he wasn’t entirely comfortable with them being at such close quarters for too long and guessed he was gearing up to get her to leave.

“Well, if that’s everything, it’s been a long day and…”

“Nah, angel, that’s not what I came to ask, well, not the main thing, anyway, although I’m glad you are happy to go and see it with me. But that’s not the real problem.”

The angel sat back in his chair and picked up his glass again.

“Go on.”

“I haven’t told you what part he’s been given yet,” her face lit up with the familiar sly grin that told the angel that there was something about this that he was unlikely to relish, “and he needs a costume. I think we should be the ones to make him one.”

***

“Really Lilith? It had to be that? Was this _your_ doing?”

“Not this time, it wasn’t. Okay, I’m not denying that I think it’s funny, but the parts are dished out by the teacher. It’s nothing to do with me and he didn’t choose it either. He’s actually not that happy about it, told me he wanted to be a sheep.

“A sheep?”

“Yeah, some of the kids get to be sheep.”

She smirked at Aziraphale’s confusion and reached over to top-up her wine before reclining in her chair, hands moving in expansive gestures as she expanded on her explanation.

“You’ve got your main roles, Mary, Joseph and they use a doll for the baby. There’s a lot of competition for those parts amongst the kids’ mums, it’s hilarious, actually, yeah. Some schools do all sorts of weird stuff with who they have at the scene but this one’s really traditional. So, there’s the Innkeeper, some shepherds,the Wise Men, a few sheep, a donkey and…Warlock.”

“As the angel,“ Aziraphale sighed and passed a hand across his face when he heard the demon across from him start giggling once more at his discomfort.

“Stop that at once, Ashtoreth, it’s not funny.”

“Oh angel, it really is, I haven’t forgotten what a pig’s ear you made of the whole…”

‘I must ask you not to bring that business up again, it really wasn’t…”

Ashtoreth was laughing in earnest now.

“Those shepherds were fucking hilarious…” she spluttered, nearly incoherent, “…the room booking thing.…”

“Lilith, if you don’t stop this instant, I won’t be giving you any help at all,” Aziraphale was glaring at her now, his colour high, wine forgotten on the table beside him, “I know I made a hash of it, you don’t have to remind me. I haven’t forgotten what Gabriel had to say on the subject, now can we drop it, please.”

“Sorry, angel,” and that set her off again for a moment, but she looked across and saw the genuine hurt on his face, and the mirth left her own suddenly. She had an inkling of the way Aziraphale was spoken to in Heaven, and that really wasn’t funny as far as she was concerned.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll desist. Aaaanyway, the costume is the problem.”

“Can’t you just, you know,” said the angel, tetchily, twiddling his fingers in Ashtoreth’s direction, “like you do with your own clothing, not now, I realise, but usually.”

Lilith had gone out and bought all of the suits and underwear that Nanny would need for her time in the household, treating herself to tweed from Allison Rodger and silk lingerie from Coco de Mer. She knew what Aziraphale was referring to though, Crowley’s habit of spinning his clothing from raw matter to suit whatever fashion he felt like following.

“Nah, has to be home made. You know how kids are these days,” she eyed Aziraphale, the person who refused a mobile phone, showed no interest in the Internet and who usually sported a coat that was a hundred and eighty years old, “okay, maybe you don’t, but take it from me, angel, kids need to feel that they fit in, and everybody else at that nursery will have costumes that their parents have made for them.”

She made a disgusted face, “Harriet has no more idea than you, gave me some money to buy something when I raised the issue. No, we’re gonna have to make something for the little fella, so he knows somebody gives a da — cares how he’s feeling.”

“Yes, I see, that does make sense, but where do I came in?” said Aziraphale, an expression of genuine bewilderment replacing the peevish look that had sat on his face since Ashtoreth had stopped laughing.

“You are needed because I can’t sssew, angel.”

“And you think I can?”

“Don’t give me that, I _know_ you can. I’ve seen you darning socks, and mending worn pocket linings and stuff. Come on angel, it’ll mean a lot to him. He was sooo sad this evening…”

The demon pouted. She was just as good at it as the angel, when she put her mind to it, and it had the same devastating effect on the ethereal being when she chose to weaponise the look.

“Oh very well, you’ve twisted my arm you wily serpent. What will he need?’

“The usual, how people tend to represent you feathery bunch, some sort of, ya know, full length thing in an appropriate colour, a halo, and wings.”

“Ah, right. Let me see now…”

She had known for a long time that Aziraphale never liked to create his clothes by miracle, preferring to buy and maintain them the human way. His face stilled and look of concentration came over it as he thought for a moment, his brow gaining that little crease that she knew so well. She could see him turning his mind to how best to approach the problem. Her heart lifted. Good old angel, once he could be persuaded into something, he generally gave it his all.

“…I think I should be able to manage a simple robe for him,” he raised his head again and skewered Ashtoreth with a pointed look, “you’re on halo duty though, and I think we might consider tackling the wings together.”

“Great, yeah, I mean, yeah, he’ll be pleased.”

She found it difficult to say thanks, but she could see by Aziraphale’s shy smile that he got the message anyway. Their long acquaintance had taught them so many of the little tells in their expressions that gave away the thoughts they were in no position to voice openly.

“Jolly good. If you bring him here tomorrow at some point, I’ll get him measured up. And if you could see your way to, ah, _liberating_ a sheet for him…?”

“Consider it done, angel.”

***

“Lift up your arms, young master Warlock, and we’ll have this done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Aziraphale hovered by the little boy, tape measure stretched between his hands. He smiled encouragingly, lifting his bushy brows and nodding his head. Warlock crossed his arms more tightly and pouted, reminded by the phrase just used of an ongoing grievance.

“Do I _have_ to be a nangel, Brother Francis?”

Aziraphale straightened up and looked at the stubborn face of the small boy in front of him. At five years old, Warlock had very strong views on his preferences in life. It might have been something to do with the angelic gardener’s influence, or just the way he was made, but in either case, he loved animals, and was deeply disappointed at having his ovine ambitions denied him. Nanny Ashtoreth, seated in the angel’s armchair, watching him try to take the boy’s measurements for his costume, leaned forward to catch his attention.

“Warlock, you like your dressing up clothes, don’t you, dearie?”

“S’pose so,” came the grudging response.

“Come on, you dooo, I know you like dressing up and looking pretty.”

“So?’

The pouting grew more pronounced.

“Angels are pretty,” said Ashtoreth.

“Are they?”

She looked across at Aziraphale, “Well, some of them are, the best ones, when they dress up nice, they’re very pretty.”

Brother Francis looked down at his feet, and Ashtoreth could see that his ears had gone a little pink. She got up and knelt down in front of Warlock, holding the little boy gently by his elbows.

“What if we promise to make you a pretty robe, and big white wings full of glitter and a halo that’s all sparkly to wear on your head, how does that sound?”

Warlock swayed for a moment on one foot, the other tucked behind his calf, clearly thinking hard about this interesting proposition, and then brought his feet together and bounced up and down.

“Okay, it’s a _deal._ But it had better be really, really sparkly. I like sparkles.”

“We promise it will be as sparkly as anything. Now, hellspawn, raise your arms and let Brother Francis here measure that little tickly tummy of yours.”

“I have not got a tickly tummy!” declared the child, face wreathed in smiles. This was an old game and he loved it.

“Yes. You. Do.” said Ashtoreth, interspersing her words with nimble tickling fingers along the boy’s sides until he doubled over, letting out high-pitched squeals.

Brother Francis watched, smiling fondly, still somewhat flustered at the demon’s remark about the alleged pulchritude of angels. Once Ashtoreth moved away, he stepped forward with his tape measure again.

“Now young man, let’s see how tall and wide you are and you can help me write down the important numbers. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

His sulky face banished by a beaming smile, Warlock raised his arms and submitted to having his measurements taken.

***

Kneeling on the bath mat, Ashtoreth counted him in and they both started singing together.

“ _Away in a manger…_ ”

She chose bath-time for their practice sessions because the acoustics in the bathroom made them both sound really good, and this gave Warlock confidence in his new found singing skills. Volume was what she was after, the aim being to cause maximum disruption on the day, but in a way that meant nobody would be able to fault the child for his actions.

“Come on, you can sing louder than that, gie it some welly, my laddie,” she said, urging him on with wider movements of her hands, waving them as if she was conducting them both. He grinned, widened his eyes and formed the biggest ‘o’ shape he could with his mouth, bellowing out the next line at a volume that would probably have had the little Lord Jesus running for his father’s workshop with his hands over his ears. This was going so well.

Warlock was delighted. They had just spent a good half hour playing with the flotilla of small plastic ships that were his favourite bath time toys while Ashtoreth spoke of annihilating his enemies. The demon had watched the kid creating tidal waves with his hands and sinking the tiny vessels. She had remembered Salamis, Trafalgar, Jutland, the sickening boom and crash as ships smashed into each other, the scream of cannon balls or shells, the cries of dying men, deadly, restless waves blooming red around them, and she had shuddered, and carried on with her work. Every so often it hit her, what might happen if they failed, and she put it to the back of her mind and continued, trusting the angel to do his job, just as she was diligently doing hers.

He didn’t feel like a wicked boy, that was the problem. She knew his essential nature would be shielded until the time was ripe for it to issue forth, but there was not an inkling of it when she sensed around him. He could be a devil child at times, with his tantrums and wilfulness, but this was tempered with a sweetness that emerged like the sun from behind a cloud. As she wrapped him up in a warm towel and held him close, she could only hope that the contrasting moods he exhibited were a sign that what they were doing was working, that they had got the balance right.

***

Aziraphale sat at the window of his cottage with his reading glasses perched on his nose and examined his stitching. The garment had been put together and fitted the child, now he was decorating it. The gold metallic thread was tricky to sew with, but he was getting there. Ashtoreth had popped in to see how he was faring with it just when he was finishing up the first side. She had widened her eyes behind her glasses when she had seen the decorations he was stitching in, and given him a look of such raw affection, it had shaken him and made him blush and stammer when he tried to explain what he was doing. She had noticed his discomfort immediately, and left him to it with no more interaction than an approving nod.

Warlock was much happier about his costume now. He had come for a fitting after some time with the gardener outside that afternoon. Aziraphale had found the child amusing himself by stepping on ants that were milling about near his compost heap. He had been horrified, the feeling intensifying when Warlock had explained that he was playing at crushing his enemies under his heel.

Aziraphale had been mightily relieved at the contrition displayed when he hunkered down on the grass and took the time to explain carefully what he could dredge up from his memory about ant society and behaviour. He spoke to the suddenly attentive little boy about collective consciousness, co-operative behaviour and the keeping of aphids as a source of sweet honeydew. His reward was the solemnity of a large-eyed promise to take care never to step on Mr Ant again, before the child trotted along happily at his side, small hand trusted to the gentle grasp of the angel’s larger one, to try on his robe.

Once again, Aziraphale marvelled at the complexity of this little human shaped boy. As he had provided the requested hug, holding the child to him briefly before he went in to Nanny for milk and cookies, he had reflected ruefully on just how much he had come to care for Satan’s offspring.

***

Making the wings had been fun, a square of card laid on on the floor of the gardener’s cottage, a pot of glue and scissors to hand on the floor. Ashtoreth had hefted a large bag of white chicken feathers and poured them on to the carpet, much to Aziraphale’s dismay. With a twinkle in her eye at the angel’s likely reaction, the demon had explained why the feathers smelled of fish and had laughed at the wrinkle in Aziraphale’s nose as he sent the odour away with a wave of his hand.

No, battery farming was nothing to do with her, she had insisted, and the feeding of fish meal to hapless hens not her doing either6. Aziraphale had sworn only to buy organic henceforth and had merely sniffed when Ashtoreth scoffed and said that the point was moot, since he never cooked for himself anyway. Aziraphale had countered that he was sure all superior establishments used free-range poultry, and the demon had laughed till tears formed in her eyes at his naivety.

Sticking on the feathers was a messy job, Aziraphale insisted on some attempt at anatomical accuracy when cutting out the card shape, but had refused to manifest his own wings just so that Ashtoreth could check as they were working, making a pained face and saying that there wasn’t the room.

By the time they were opening a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1982, wings finished and looking splendid on the carpet before them, they were both in high good humour.

“What colour’s your halo, angel?” said Ashtoreth, swallowing a large mouthful of wine and gesturing towards his hair with the graceful flick of a long-fingered hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s -– it’s just light,” said the exasperated angel, “it doesn’t really have a colour. Why are you asking me such a silly question?”

“Ngggh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, just wanna get it right, when I make the thing for Warlock.”

“Ah, I see, that makes more sense now, why didn’t’ you say?” said Aziraphale, looking somewhat mollified at this declaration, “gold, go for gold, probably the best bet. I expect it doesn’t really matter as long as it’s shiny enough for the young master’s tastes.”

“Nyeah, wouldn’t want to upset him with less than the best, would we? Might be a good idea for me not to get on his bad side, you know, for when it all goes…”

“Don’t say that, it will work, it has to.”

Aziraphale let his eyes grew misty. When all this had begun, he had thought he would be able to reconcile himself to the End of Days, as a good angel should. It hadn’t taken much persuasion on Crowley’s part for him to realise that he was fooling himself, it was the last thing he wanted. Co-operating with Lilith over the time they had both been working on this costume had only served to strengthen those feelings. They had never been so close, and he knew it was obvious to both of them how well they worked together as a team.

Since they had come her to oversee Warlock’s upbringing, he had tried not to think ahead too much for the simple reason that thoughts of failing brought on feelings of panic so intense that he had to sit down and catch his breath to master it. There was so much to lose, and those familiar sensations of love and connection7 threatened to swamp him unless he concentrated on something practical.

He looked across at Nanny Ashtoreth, feet up again on the little table by the hearth, scowling at her hands as she worked her fingers against her thumb to remove some PVA adhesive stuck there, her hair escaping from her bun, sunglasses off. She was radiant, beautiful, and more than that, important…necessary…

His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her, and he took a large gulp of his wine, concentrating on the complex flavours that flooded his mouth to steady his thoughts. It was all going splendidly, he told himself. They were going all out to do their best for Warlock. Everything was going to be fine.

***

The weeks went by so quickly, Harriet and Thaddeus left for Europe, kissing their child and telling him they would be back before Santa came to visit, and wouldn’t that be exciting? Warlock received his kisses dutifully, before running off to find Nanny and ask to play in the garden.

Household staff were sent to Harrods to purchase a tree and decorations for the main rooms of the ambassadorial dwelling, which were delivered a day later. The colour scheme was all silver and pale blue, and the tasteful elegance of it made the house seem colder, somehow. Little Warlock was not allowed to help, and scowled at the tree once it was up, its perfection not pleasing to a little person who loved garish glitter in an array of bright colours.

Warlock’s desire for something that reflected his excitement around the idea of Christmas was satisfied a couple of days later, when he was invited into the gardener’s cottage with his Nanny to decorate the little fir tree that stood there, in the corner furthest from the blazing fire. He scampered, happily chattering, alongside Francis to cut holly and ivy for the mantelpiece, and later, after cocoa and marshmallows, chose the brightest baubles and most colourful tinsel from the chaotic pile he was presented with, spilling out of the box they had been stored in. Once the decorations had been hung to cover nearly all the green on the tree, there were candy canes and chocolate Father Christmases, snowmen and angels to unpack from little string bags and place wherever there was space for them. Warlock giggled at the faces Nanny made all through Brother Francis’ lecture about the spirit of Christmas and how it brought people together in love and fellowship. He knew Nanny loved Francis, and was pretty sure Francis loved Nanny right back. They just enjoyed teasing, and it made him feel warm and happy to listen to the back and forth of their gentle bickering.

***

The prospective angelic performer hardly had time to be nervous before it was the day of the play. Aziraphale had coached him on the two sentences he had been given to say, ignoring Ashtoreth as she sniggered from the sidelines when he had Warlock repeat the lines “Fear not” and “Glad tidings of great joy I bring, the advent of our Heav’nly King” until he had them word perfect.

Nanny had no problem getting him dressed that morning, Warlock was terrifically proud of his outfit and couldn’t wait to get into it. The wings, feathers sparkling with the multicoloured glitter sprinkled on them, swayed at his back, held on with a harness made of soft ribbon and a minor angelic miracle. The robe fitted perfectly, gold embroidery on each side delicately stitched and winking in the light. Ashtoreth had wielded pliers on dismantled wire coat hangersand twisted gold tinsel to make a very pretty halo and it wobbled now, above the child’s head as he waited in the lobby of the house to leave. Ashtoreth had used her demonic wiles on the security staff to persuade them that the boy was safe enough with them, so it was with his Nanny and the family gardener alone that he left the house to walk the quarter mile or so to his school.

When they arrived, Ms Nzema, Warlock’s class teacher, received him with delight, exclaiming over his costume and telling him how splendid he looked. He was quickly ushered off through a door that led to the backstage area and Aziraphale and Ashtoreth were left waiting with the parents in the foyer of the school hall.

Nanny strolled over to examine the large, leafy plants that decorated the vestibule, sneering when she realised they were all plastic. It was a modern building, tastefully decorated and currently swarming with well-dressed and extremely prosperous looking men and women waiting to coo over their offspring in the yearly exhibition of parental conceit that was the nursery school nativity play.

Ashtoreth was glad she was dressed up to the nines, looking strangely sultry for someone encased in respectable suiting from neck to just below the knee. The angel, too, was looking spiffy, having appeared at the door of the gardener’s cottage in a moss green tweed three piece suit with a subtle check, cut in a more close fitting style than he normally wore, finished to perfection with a creamy dress shirt and gold bow tie, embroidered with tiny Christmas trees. She had voiced her approval when he stood still to be inspected, a shy delight in confounding her expectations showing on his face. He looked suitably festive and rather handsome, despite the fearsome teeth and eyebrows, and she had done her best to let him know he looked good, without compromising her demonic _sang froid_ , of course.

Lilith walked past him and touched his arm.

“Just going to snag us tickets for the tea after, back in a wee moment, dear.”

He beamed at her and nodded, looking around him again at the assembled company. He was smiling at people as he usually did, but this was a tough crowd of varying alliances, each clique determined to ignore the others. Nobody there was willing to engage with someone they didn’t know. Socialising in this milieu was confined to talking with those one could count on impressing, or who might be used to further one’s particular ambitions. The parents of Knightsbridge had no interest in an angel’s ministrations, and this expressed itself instinctively, as they swerved to avoid him.

Ashtoreth, more at home, caught the the comment made in a lazy, upper-class drawl as she sashayed past.

“… that strange women who looks after the little American boy. Have you _seen_ what she’s come with? Darling, I can’t say I care for her, but you would think she could do better than _that_. Just look at the state of him…”

The speaker and the woman on the receiving end of the comment craned their necks round to look at Aziraphale, innocently admiring one of the historic photographs of the old school on the walls of the foyer.

Ashtoreth’s eyes gleamed with malice behind her dark lenses as she recognised the speaker. Caroline Cavendish, mother of Tamsin, a spoilt little girl who had made Warlock cry a few months ago, teasing him mercilessly for his accent and the unusual clothes that he wore. She itched for some sort of retribution. Nobody spoke about her angel like that. There would be a time for revenge, for both of them, when the opportunity arose. A demon never forgot, and she was a champion grudge holder, when she was so minded.

Furious, she turned on her heel after picking up the tea chitty, swishing past the supercilious women and back across to her angel. She stopped in front of him and, stooping slightly on her vertiginous heels, she kissed him lightly on the cheek in a public display of affiliation clearly visible to all. She wiped the lipstick off his face with her thumb, and he looked up at her, shellshocked and glassy eyed.

“Let’s go through and take our seats, angel,” she said, loudly, as she took his slack hand in hers, tucking it under her elbow and waiting till his fingers curled around her arm, then patting them with her other hand, “there now, away we go!” she cooed, and they set off.

She glanced sideways at him and noted his blush, and the beginnings of a smile blooming over his face, and was glad she had risked what she would never dare do under other circumstances. They walked past the two women who stared after them, and Ashtoreth could not resist a little sneer as she steered Aziraphale around them, bumping one of the woman with her handbag and knocking her off balance. Some short sighted humans couldn’t see past superficial appearances to what goodness there was underneath. She pitied them a little, knowing what would be coming for them with the slow inevitability of their own gradual damnation.

They settled into the plush chairs in the hall and waited as the other seats filled up. The chattering died away as the lights were lowered, and all eyes concentrated on the musty mustard curtains that screened the stage in front of them. A piano struck up with the familiar chords of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, and the curtains jerked apart in awkward stutters to reveal a number of children in a tableau who began singing when the teacher at the piano waved her hand.

Ashtoreth could not help but feel the irony of the situation.Here they were in a West London school hall, the Angel of the Lord who had brought the message of the birth of Yeshua to those tending sheep on that Judean hillside over two thousand years ago, and the demon who had tempted Eve to Fall and necessitated the divine act of mercy that the advent of the child was believed to represent. The two agents of opposing sides sitting quietly amidst oblivious human parents, waiting for the Antichrist to appear on stage as an angel in a costume made by the pair of them. Real life was entirely stranger than fiction whenever they became involved, it would seem. She concentrated on what was happening, nudging the angel when Joseph asked if there was room at the inn, hearing his softly intoned tut of irritation and smiling to herself.

There was a lull after a carol was laboured through and then kids filed on to the stage in what looked like bathrobes, with tea towels tied round their heads, accompanied by others on their hands and knees wearing black masks and what appeared to be fluffy rugs strapped around their middles. The sheep, of course. They got settled and then Warlock made his entrance.

The little boy really did look rather lovely. The white robe and wings appeared to be radiating light. Ashtoreth nudged her companion and leaned into his space to whisper.

“He’s _glowing_ , angel. What did you _do_?”

_He reached around and found what he was looking for, pinching his fingers together, once, twice. Two small semiplume feathers lay in his palm, fluffy and celestially bright. He intoned a few words and waved a hand over them and then bent for the glue, folding his wings away as he did so. A blob on each quill and there they were, tucked amidst the chicken feathers, the blessing along with them. Pleased, he held the cardboard wings up and inspected them, noting how they hummed with subtle light, and hung them up against the garment bag that held the robe. This was his small gift to Warlock, in that moment, nothing more than a lovely little boy he had come to care for, who needed his support and protection. If it was inappropriate that he did thus, he found he couldn’t, at that point, bring himself to care._

“ _Me_?” protested the angel, _sotto voce_ , “why nothing. The lighting is _very_ good, it must be that you are noticing.”

The darkness hid his blush, but Ashtoreth could see the corners of the angel’s mouth were lifted in one of his small, private smiles.

Warlock turned and raised his arm, preparing to speak his invocation. The golden halo caught the spotlight angled down from the rig overhead to pick him out, and scintillated for a moment. The glare from it flared in the angel’s eye and he turned to his companion.

“Never mind _me_ , what mischief have _you_ been working here, you subtle thing, you?”

_The summoning of stardust achieved, she kneaded it in her hand, feeling the familiar sting and prickle of it through the soft pads of her fingers. She stretched it and rolled it thin, twisting it to thread between the strands of tinsel wound around the wire of the hoop that she had made. She worked round the circle carefully, until the sparkling matter was embedded amidst the floss of metallic plastic, and stitched the ends tight, humming an ancient tune that settled it as she laboured. The little coronet for the boy’s head was quietly coruscated with ancient light, and she was pleased. This was important to the kid, she was determined it would go well for him, it was the least that she could do for one she had grown to care for with such a savage, unruly affection._

“ Neeurgh… ’s nothing, just the lighting, like you said.”

The boy spoke his lines proud and clear, projecting just like he had been told to do. The audience as one voiced an ‘ah’ of appreciation when he finished, and a little ripple of applause ran through the assembled company. The child’s face was incandescent with his pleasure, and his small chest puffed up with pride as he followed the sheep and shepherds to stand at the back of the stage.

The singing was quite as loud as Ashtoreth had hoped it would be, although Warlock was matched in that by a couple of the other children. The parents evidently found it charming, and there were smiles and chuckles from those watching as he vigorously undermined the generally accepted notion of what constitutes a silent night.

Aziraphale fumbled for his handkerchief, folded neatly in his top pocket and dabbed at his eyes. It had been lovely and he was feeling rather overcome. He glanced sideways, hoping he hadn’t been caught in his foolishness, and then brought another square of fine linen into being, unfolding it discreetly and handing it to his neighbour so that she too could wipe her damp face.

“We…” her voice was husky, “…we done good angel,” was all she said, and he had to agree. Good was definitely what they had done.

The rest of the little play went swimmingly. Warlock was beaming as he took his bow, hand in hand with a shepherd and a sheep, as the enthusiastic applause echoed around the auditorium.

There was unrestrained laughter and the highest of spirits amongst the cast members as they rushed for juice and cake once the house lights were up again. If there was a subtle click of fingers, and a subsequent small disaster in one part of the hall, where a Wise Person tripped on the hem of her gaudy robe, tearing it as she fell and hitting her mother full in her immaculate Armani-clad chest with a cupful of blackcurrant juice in the process, well that was entirely their problem. Ashtoreth could not resist a fulsome grin as Caroline Cavendish, furious and soaking, led her wailing daughter past the demon and angel and out of the hall. All in all, everything had worked out entirely to her satisfaction, as it generally did.

“C’mon, angel, let’s go get some of that cake.”

***

Warlock, cosy in his bed, gazed sleepily at the robe, wings and halo, hanging on his wardrobe door. He had asked his Nanny to put them there so that he could see them while he fell asleep. There had been hot chocolate and then a kiss goodnight on the forehead from Nanny after she had sung to him about the genocidal activities of the Grand Old Duke of York, and now he was alone in the gentle light emanating from his costume.

The whole day had been _awesome_. He had been nervous that morning, worried he would mess up, and sad that his mom and dad were not there to see him. Nanny had been just amazing though, saying how good he looked when he changed into his costume and then sitting with him, telling him to just go for it like they had practiced and show up the other kids with his superior brilliance. Brother Francis had told him in his kind and solemn way that the most important thing was for him to do his best, and that if he did that, everything would be okay.

They were both right, as it turned out, and it really had been _wicked_. Everyone had clapped for him and he had got a hug from his class teacher and from Nanny and Brother Francis too. They had saved him a huge slice of cake and afterwards, the three of them had sung carols all the way home, with Nanny making up her own rude words for some of them, Brother Francis laughing along all the while, and even joining in a bit at the end. Then there had been pizza for dinner and Christmas movies until he was so tired, he couldn’t stop his head from nodding forward.

He missed his mom, and wondered why his dad never spent much time with him, and that still hurt sometimes, but it didn’t matter quite so much right now. Christmas was coming and he felt safe and happy knowing Nanny was along the hall and Brother Francis outside in his little house. They loved him, he knew that, and it made everything kind of okay. His eyes grew heavy in his room lit strangely for this one night with the light of the Heavens. Warm and secure, Warlock fell asleep, as contented as a small boy could possibly be.

1Tad’s first wife had only ever given him daughters, and the two girls rarely saw their father now, having been cordoned-off into a corner of Tad’s life in Washington with his ex-wife and her extraordinarily large alimony payments.

2Tad found Nanny rather intimidating, but in a way that gave him a bit of a frisson. On more than one occasion he had caught himself wondering if she was as strict as she looked, and what things she might do, if asked to be strict. The thing was that she looked back at him as if she knew what he was thinking, which was by far the most worrying thing about the whole situation. Whenever she smiled at him, with her eyebrow raised above the lenses of those dark glasses she wore, he tended to find a pressing need to be elsewhere. This suited Nanny just fine.

3Aziraphale had taken one look at the leaf blower sitting in the toolshed and had reached for the rake leaning up against the wall behind it, dismissing the machine as a totally pointless piece of equipment. On this occasion, his rejection of this example of modern technology was entirely sensible. Leaf blowers are silly.

4Impertinent and slacking, in Ashtoreth’s view.

5Which had consisted of said plush stuffed toy enslaving a vast rat army to do her evil bidding. When Warlock had pointed out that kitty had a cute pink nose, she had explained that the cuteness was merely a sign of just how wicked she really was. Confuse your enemies before you destroy them, she had counselled, whilst booping the child on his own nose, much to his giggly delight.

6Cheap chicken smells of fish, and this is why.

7He tried not to dwell on the person he felt most connected to. He loved everything, that was all it was. Definitely. Absolutely. Nothing to see here, move along now.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for Crowley encouraging Warlock to sing loudly during his Nativity Play as a way of causing an amusing disruption that will only annoy particularly uptight parents comes from [this amazing video](https://youtu.be/ihQuiyV-lXU)
> 
> The headcanon of Warlock enjoying dressing up and looking pretty is inspired by a fic by the wonderful [LibbyFay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds) called [Too Sad For Pants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814443/chapters/62707522) go read it, it’s lovely.
> 
> The reference to the song Crowley sings about the Grand Old Duke of York is taken from the book. It is a fairly old fashioned nursery song that can be sung whilst walking. The version Crowley sings in the book goes as follows:
> 
> Oh the Grand Old Duke of York  
> He had ten thousand men  
> He marched them up to the top of the hill  
> And crushed all the nations of the world and brought them under the rule of Satan our Master.
> 
> Aziraphale in the garden with Warlock and the ants is a story from when I was about 4, and my father sat and explained to me about everything deserving a chance to live unmolested. I have never knowingly killed anything since that day.
> 
> I have another Christmas story, written last year and updated this year. It is a light-hearted Good Omens take on Dickens’ famous work for Christmas based on the same Tumblr post that Neil Gaiman made about Aziraphale and Crowley at Christmas that this story took its inspiration from. [A Christmas Carol Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748195/chapters/51885319) give it a read if you are interested.


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